


My Messy Miracle

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Fix-It, Gun Violence, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's Grave, bottomlock, but it sure could have been worse, no romance between John and Mary, the idea was a non-angsty post-reichenbach, which turned out impossible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: Sherlock has been dead for twenty days when John's phone rings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinkhappythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkhappythoughts/gifts).



> So I just wanted to do a quick fix of all the heartbreak, and write a happy reunion scene. But in order to finish a story you do need an ending (surprise), and I found myself facing the reality of Sherlock's dilemma on the roof. And then I had the one thought "Mary". Well, what do you do, a writer can't turn down a story wanting to be told.
> 
> This fic is now polished by my faithful beta. Thank you, Akhenaten's Mummy!
> 
> I gift the updated version to my incredible sister, since this is her favourite of all the fics she's helped me with. She takes half the cred for figuring out how to get our boys out of this mess. (While running a fever. How lucky am I to have you!) Check out her amazing fanart at [thinkhappythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkhappythoughts)!

Dead grass. Grey sky. Black stone. Wilting flowers. I throw them away.

Golden letters. No dates.

I don't bloody need dates. It's the first thing I know every morning when I wake up. Twenty days today.

And the birthday, well, I don't fucking need the agony of that day every year for the rest of my life, do I. Better not to know.

I do regret never asking him, though. Wish I'd celebrated him. Maybe then he'd–

No numbers. No sentimentality. Just the simplest of facts.

_Sherlock Holmes._

I put the new flowers down. They're roses. Red. Looks very dramatic against the black and the gold. I now realise this is probably where I accidentally come out.

Out of the closet, as they say. That's beyond weird since I was never in it. Am I gay, then?

Red roses. It seems so.

Well. Fuck it.

Silence. Chill air.

I complete the ritual and go home.

“One more miracle, please, for me. Don't be dead. Just stop it.”

***

No, I don't fucking go home. I don't go home any more. I go to my miserable excuse for a flat.

Phone buzzes. It's Mrs Hudson. I don't answer.

She sends a text. Wow, that's a first.

_Hello dear you know you always have a cuppa waiting for you at baker street when you need it MRS H_

Almost smile.

Time passes. I think.

Phone buzzes. Ugh, I don't want a bloody cuppa. I can make my own cuppa should the need arise. Not at stupid Baker Street.

I don't look. I don't answer.

Phone buzzes again. For the love of God, why don't I get to grieve in peace.

Phone buzzes again. I growl and look.

It's Sherlock.

***

It's Sherlock.

My breath is punched right out of me and then my body tries to squeeze me out of itself, my breathing goes from calm to hyperventilating in less than a second and first I feel like I'm falling, and then I'm probably landing because my head hurts like hell and my eyes have black spots in front of them and I'm not dead, no, only deadly furious, and I want to know what sodding miserable creature has got hold of Sherlock's phone and why the bastard was so fucking keen on calling me right this instant that they couldn't bother to go get their own bloody phone, and my hands shake so violently that I almost throw the thing across the room by accident, and I attempt to push the answer button as furiously as I can but the touch screen brings this action no satisfaction whatsoever and that pisses me off.

I barely remember to put the phone to my ear before I speak, a hoarse growl directed to whoever this is.

“Don't you bloody do that to me ever again.”

I'm panting so loudly I may not hear the other person speak, but as I try to quiet myself down I realise the idiot hasn't actually spoken and that's a good thing, they should be bloody scared right now, they should be perfectly clear on the direness of this situation and my hate for them-

“I won't.”

***

His voice is soft and deep and it's kind of like honey, no it's _exactly_ like honey, and it's also tentative and a bit frightened and it's him.

He stopped it.

***

There is breathing, there is _his_ breathing, I can hear it, and there's me alternating between holding my breath entirely and panting. Until he speaks again.

“I promise.”

“Sherlock. Bloody. Holmes. Get. Here. Now.”

There is a silence and I find myself praying, praying that I'm not going crazy, and that he didn't die again during the last silent seconds, and then he speaks again.

“It's not really safe, John, I'm not sure if-”

“ _Now._ ”

The hum he makes is one of surrender. _Still got it, Watson._

***

Pacing and pacing and pacing like a crazy person I feel like a completely crazy person and I wish I was someone else I think, yes I wish I was a soccer mom in some dull suburb filling her days with cooking and driving here and there and submitting to her kid's every whim, or whatever they do, I have no fucking idea where this thought came from, maybe it was because soccer moms likely have no time to think? Well it doesn't matter because it's stupid and also untrue, there is no one I'd rather be than the person who gets to live his life side by side with the biggest fucking arsehole in London, yeah, I am a crazy person, and I am pacing and I feel like I'm floating about half a metre above my own body but not in a peaceful way, more like a bursting balloon trying to pull away from my body because I can't handle this, how much time has passed already – oh God, it's only two minutes – _Watson, get a fucking grip!_

Yeah, I may have gone crazy now, can you go crazy from grief? I'm a doctor, I should know this, I should also know how to bloody check a body for life signs, and I do, so either I was out of my mind twenty days ago or I am now, oh Sherlock you piece of shit I'm going to kill you for putting me through this if it turns out you survived that fall – who survives a bloody fall like that?

It can't be true.

He must be dead.

 _Watson, you need to stop thinking_. Go back to just pacing, pacing was better.

Pacing and pacing and tugging my hair, I am actually tugging my hair like some ridiculous cartoon and my clothes are twisting uncomfortably around me, I need to buy new clothes, because _that's_ what's fucked up about all this, _Watson, pull it together_.

I'm so desperate for a distraction that I feel the impulse to start singing. Yeah, you heard me. That's what Sherlock Holmes has made of me and I want to know what more he can make of me and I want it for the rest of my life we are not finished and maybe we don't have to be and would you just please come through that fucking door already so I can smash your sorry face in.

***

I'm staring at the door intensely enough to break it and still I jump when it opens.

There is a coat. There is a scarf. There are cheekbones. There are pale eyes.

There is honey:

“You really shouldn't keep your door unlocked right now.”

And I really thought I would punch him. First thing. I really thought so. Or maybe break down in an embarrassing crying fit. I thought the twenty days of pain levels hereto unheard of must be let out somehow, and I was right, but I didn't predict I would react quite like this.

Sherlock Holmes is pressed against me. He's stiff like a corpse but warm like a living human being, like a clumsy weight in my arms waving his hands about slightly, as if he hasn't quite figured out what to use limbs like those for. He's so weird and awkward and I feel my chest tremble with laughter. I clutch the back of his coat and seem to have buried my nose in it because my nostrils are full of a strong smell of wet wool, and of Sherlock's pretentious soap.

“You bloody snob”, is apparently the first thing I can think of to say, and it comes out all strange and fluttery and I realise I'm giggling. As soon as I notice this, I feel like I may explode with the sheer ecstasy inside me and I keep making the strangest high-pitched sounds. _Watson, you sound ridiculous_.

It sounds less and less frightening and more and more like real laughter, and the body in my arms relaxes into me, Sherlock Holmes' hands come to rest lightly on my lower back because he can in fact use those hands because he is alive, and he joins me laughing and it sounds surprised and I have never felt better in my life. His laughter is better than honey. It's like – well, what's better than honey? It's kind of like water in the way it pours out of him, but it's also glistening and sweet and deep and I don't even know why I'm obsessing over the right metaphors here, I'm not about to write some memorial about Sherlock Holmes because Sherlock Holmes is bloody alive –

And that's when I notice I keep kissing him. I'm kissing him. While giggling like a lunatic. My lips meet his coat and his scarf and the small patch of skin I find on his neck and now his jaw. I don't even know for how long I've been doing this, but judging by my slightly sore lips, probably since the moment he walked in here.

Sherlock Holmes has already noticed this, of course.

And it should embarrass me and it should absolutely embarrass _him_ but he's still chuckling, and I keep laughing and kissing his skin and I try to stop but I can't, even as I speak.

“You cock, I knew it! You can't bloody die, can you?” Kiss. Kiss. “Oh my God, do you have any fucking idea what the past twenty days have been like? You infuriating piece of shit!”

This would sound heavier if I could just bloody stop laughing but I can't and Sherlock twists under my hands, but he must be crazy if he thinks I'll bloody let him go. He stills, stops laughing and puts his cheek against my hair in resignation.

“I'm sorry”, he says tentatively. “I didn't think you-”

“You didn't think I _what_?” I almost shout and crash my mouth pretty hard into the underside of his jaw bone.

“Would react like…” Sherlock Holmes is at a loss of words and I find this incredibly funny, because I can in no way blame him for not being able to name what I am currently doing. “… _this_ ”, he finishes and it has me laughing hysterically again.

He joins me laughing once more and I draw back my head to look at his face, but then I see it's _his face_ and I have to lean in to kiss his jaw again.

“You could have _bloody told me_!” I don't even try to stop kissing him now.

“I could not”, his jaw moves under my lips. “Moriarty was going to kill you.”

It only now occurs to me that he makes no attempt to pull back. Sherlock Holmes lets me kiss him. For minutes on end.

“Are you… angry?” he asks. While compliantly receiving the kisses. Christ.

“Am I _angry_? Of course I'm bloody angry, you utter dick! I'm so fucking angry that I'm going to kiss you until you are a freaking puddle on my hallway floor, because also I love you so much-”

I pull my head back. Wow. Didn't think he would be the one crying.

“Yeah, I love you”, I say, challenging. “You're alive, which means you're bloody mine, I won't let you go again. Like it or not, Sherlock Holmes.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out a sob. He opens his mouth and that mouth is the best bloody thing since vaccination and it really had no business being dead, it's all so obvious to me now, of course it wasn't dead. And now it tries to form some words and I can tell that the first one is _I_. It tries several times. Soon I'll have to kiss it to teach it a lesson.

“I like it”, it finally whispers.

It gets its lesson anyway.

It seems to rather like this lesson.

***

There are lips. There are tongues. There are some teeth too. There is breath and it smells wonderful, and it's coming against my mouth in a panting manner and I want to eat it, his breath. I feel genuinely desperate about the fact that I can't eat it.

There is some tugging in my hair and there is hair in my hands, it's curly and soft and I want to rip it but I also want to stroke it and I feel trapped between those two options. I let out my frustration over this into the kissing. Sherlock Holmes moans and he must also be frustrated about something because he's kissing back frantically and enveloping me in his living moving warm body.

“John”, he pants and tries to escape my mouth. “We should-”

“No”, I tell him, capturing his lips again. “No, we should do _this_.”

“Yes, but-” I cut him off with a kiss and he lets me. I push him backwards, and his groan when his back hits the wall is unashamedly loud.

He is glorious against me and he is mine now, and I can feel him against my hip and his hands are all over my back and we are doing this.

He breaks free again: “ _John_ , this is important, we are both in mortal danger-”

I still my hands where they are currently exploring his hipbones, put my mouth half an inch from his. “Will it be less dangerous if we stop this?”

“John, I shouldn't have-”

“Well, you did. Is someone going to burst through this door trying to kill us during the next hour?”

“No, Mycroft's minions are surveilling the flat.” He sees me pale and hurriedly adds: “Not inside.”

“Then I'm taking you to bed right now.”

Sherlock Holmes whimpers helplessly. How is it even possible that I've known him for seventeen months and never heard these sounds of his, the ground shifts beneath me when I for a split second think about how I nearly never got to hear them at all. I decide there is really nothing more important than drawing more of those sounds out of him, and I'm sure it's very dangerous and all that, but Sherlock Holmes wouldn't allow himself to give in like this if there were enough logical reasons not to.

Watson is a man who keeps his promises and so I take him to bed and he tries to stop me one last time, at the bedroom threshold he whispers: “John, is this what you want?” and I push him down into my brand new mattress and press my groin against him and tell him no, I just happened to be very horny and then in came a random body and I just had to have sex with it _of course_ I want this you bloody idiot aren't you supposed to be a genius?

And then I snog him senseless and he starts to turn restlessly underneath me and his head rolls to the side and suddenly I shudder because it's too dark in here and he's lying there in his coat and in a fit of panic I raise my hand to his hair, entirely expecting to find it sticky with blood. “John?” he asks breathlessly and I fumble with the light switch of the bedside lamp.

“Get out of that coat”, I tell him through gritted teeth and pull away to leave room for him to do it. He watches me anxiously and I ask him if he has any fucking clue what that image did to me and he says no, he hasn't. Which is kind of a painful revelation.

And I tell him he could have bloody told me before and not waited for twenty fucking days and he looks so sad and says: “Twenty days is nothing. If Mycroft got to decide, it would have taken years”, but then I can't bear to think about this any more so I pin him down again and his legs immediately come up to fold around my waist and soon the desire wipes everything else out.

Sherlock Holmes kisses me like he'll die if he doesn't and I think dizzily that maybe that was the problem, this is what he needed all along, and he claws at my clothes until they're gone and his naked body is astonishingly alive and writhing underneath me and I make him mine, I make him mine in a way I'm sure no one has had him before and he shouts my name over and over like it is the most important thing he knows.

***

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Hmm.” A deep vibration against the skin of my throat.

“You know I- I find it difficult, this sort of stuff. I'm going to tell you something I can't possibly express with words, so you are going to listen very carefully, and you are going to deduce the extent of what I'm saying. Okay?”

He pulls his head away, shifting higher on the bed. His hand strokes my side lazily and I feel his sweaty skin cooling under my fingertips.

“Okay.”

His eyes focus on my face and I'm suddenly scared under his scrutinising stare, despite my request for him to take me apart with those very eyes.

“Don't ever leave me again.”

His eyes dart around my face quickly and I force myself not to flinch. I stare back, willing him to see it all, because if he asks me how I've been during the last twenty days, I know I'll never be able to say. And if I wanted to tell him I'm in love with him I wouldn't know how, because I've called myself in love before and none of those experiences resembles what I feel for Sherlock Holmes.

“Me too”, he finally mumbles.

I let out a long sigh and allow my eyes to close. “More of this, then”, I breathe and place the softest of kisses on his lips.

“John”, he breathes back and I'm guessing it's another word for _yes_. My name on his lips seems to be another word for lots of different stuff and that should be confusing but it's really not.

I should have known.

I open my eyes to the most beautiful sight ever presented to me. Sherlock Holmes' head is on my pillow, hair tangled, cheeks rosy, lips full and red. His eyes are closed, and the tiny wrinkles in the corners of them give away the shyest of smiles. He slowly opens his eyes and gives me one of those rare moments of not hiding.

I think of this magnificent body tumbling towards the ground and the instinct to protect him is so fierce I feel like breaking something.

“So. What the _hell_ is going on, Sherlock?”

His smile changes into another one, just as imperceptible, and one I recognise oh so well. His eyes take on a different gleam and his voice goes from velvety to dry.

“I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I'd invited Moriarty onto the roof…”

I rest my head against the crook of my arm, listen to him and tell him he's brilliant and amazing.

Because he is. Impossible in the best and worst of ways.

“Next time you let me in, though”, I tell him when he's done, I try to be stern but sound pleading. “You don't do this again.”

“I'm letting you in _now_. It's not over yet, John.”

“But you said Moriarty died.”

“Even so, his network is vast, and it's safe to guess he has people looking out for the possibility that I faked it. If they found out, it would once more put you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade in danger.”

“Okay. So let's wipe them out, then.”

His smile grows. “That's the plan.”

There is a buzzing coming from the floor and Sherlock groans. “That was hardly an hour”, he mutters as he slides out of my arms and picks up his coat. He pulls his phone from the pocket, the screen lit up.

“Seriously, Sherlock. You have the same fucking number still.”

“You need to get dressed. We are having a visitor.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock frowns as he straightens my clothes – which are already perfectly straight – and tames my mess of a hair. He gives me a disapproving look, head tilted to the side.

“Alright, stop it, you pedantic sod.”

He scoffs and at the same time the door pops open.

Mycroft carefully closes it behind him, raises his head and gives us one look. His brows lower in criticism.

“Oh, you cannot be serious.”

Sherlock scowls. “I'm fairly sure I locked that door behind me, Mycroft. The polite thing to do is knock.” I purse my lips to hide what would probably be a smile, because Sherlock certainly didn't knock either and I can't keep laughing when he behaves like a jerk, adorable as this jerk may be.

Mycroft sighs, giving me the same disapproving look Sherlock did moments ago. “Unwise, brother mine.”

“It's none of your business”, Sherlock says in that clipped tone of his.

“No? I would be able to see the afterglow from the other side of the street. I thought I could trust you not to take a risk like that.”

“The-” I frown, very much hoping I'm misreading his words. “Are you talking about me?”

“It wasn't exactly the _plan_ ,” Sherlock says, ignoring me.

“Doctor Watson is a terrible liar”, Mycroft says, which is of course rude to say when I'm standing right here, but well. This guy did steal my therapist's notebook and read it to me. “It's bad enough he now knows, but with this level of – _contentment_ – his grieving will not be believable to anyone. I'm surprised I need to tell you this.”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock growls. “If someone sees you-”

“I made sure no one did, obviously. You see, Sherlock, I'm careful that way. Unlike you, putting your coat on simply to make an impression. You cannot wear that coat right now, as you well know.”

“You sound like Father.”

“And you behave like a child.”

“Wouldn't put it that way”, Sherlock says with a glance at me, making me actually blush.

“Please, spare me”, Mycroft says.

“I don't know if you've forgotten”, I throw in, “but you're in my home without having been invited. Care to tell me why?”

“Of course”, Mycroft says with his insincere imitation of a smile. “Apologies. Shall we sit?”

He sits at my kitchen table, and I suppose there's not much else for me to do than take the other chair. Sherlock remains standing, making me nervous with his coat on, as if he's about to dash off and leave me without telling me where he's going. I never liked it when he did that, but now the idea terrifies me to my soul.

“As you probably know, Doctor Watson, this is Sherlock's last night in London”, Mycroft says as if he sees my fear and wants to make it worse.

“No”, I say sharply and try to catch Sherlock's eyes. “He didn't say.”

“I told you about Moriarty's network”, Sherlock says, looking away. “I need to dismantle it before I can reveal myself publicly.”

“Then why are you leaving London?”

“Because he has connections all over Europe, John.” Sherlock still avoids looking at me.

“Right. Then I'm coming with you.”

“That is not an option, I'm afraid”, Mycroft says. “If you suddenly disappear, it will look suspicious. There are people keeping an eye on you, John. They are monitoring you to make sure Sherlock really is dead. Which is why we need you here, and we need you to be grieving.”

Grieving, that's my part in this? No fucking way.

“I don't care”, I say. “This is insane, you both are insane. I can go where the bloody hell I want, and I want to go with Sherlock.”

“Your bravery is praiseworthy”, Mycroft says without looking particularly praising at all, “but you leaving the country indefinitely so close after Sherlock's suicide would cause them to look closer at the details. If they found out Sherlock is still alive, it would put you both in mortal danger. And even if you would manage to hide, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade would in all probability not be so lucky.”

Oh, I hate that sleek face and smooth voice of his. All of this is his bloody fault, and still he has the audacity to sit here and dictate the rules for what Sherlock and I can and cannot do.

“Fine”, I say, “Sherlock stays here, then. We can start with hunting down Moriarty's people in London, and when we leave for Europe there'll be no one left here threatening Mrs Hudson and Greg.”

“I cannot be seen here, John”, Sherlock says in a low voice.

“Then you don't go outside”, I snarl. “You live in my bedroom and Mycroft can clean up the mess he's created. Seriously, Mycroft, you have the resources to fight this war, why do you send your little brother to do it?”

Mycroft's eyes are calm even as I'm staring him down. “Because he won't have it any other way.”

“John”, Sherlock says, still in that careful and low voice, “this will likely take years. Can you imagine me hiding inside for years? I'll eventually shoot your walls down out of boredom.”

“Oh, I'll make sure you aren't bored”, I promise him in my most deadly soldier voice, not really caring that his moron of a brother is sitting right there.

“Which brings me to my initial objection to this progression of events”, Mycroft says. “If Sherlock would stay with you, do you intend to keep up this new-found… _aspect_ of your relationship?”

“None of your business”, Sherlock repeats at the same time as I almost shout:

“You bet your arse I do! Oh.” I glance at Sherlock from the corner of my eye, seeing the smug smile he tries to suppress.

“In that case”, Mycroft says, “you will look like a smitten teenager instead of a grieving friend, pardon my phrasing.”

“Oh, so now it's dangerous for me to be _happy_?”

I meant it as a rhetorical question, but Mycroft simply answers: “Yes.”

Silence falls in my bare kitchen. For a second I contemplate faking my own death and following him. No one would be that surprised if I committed suicide at this point. But no, I can't do that any more than I can do it for real. Not when there's Harry, Mrs Hudson, Greg.

“I can pretend”, I say at last. “I can-”

“You know you can't”, Sherlock says, and he looks at me now.

“You must be apart”, Mycroft says. “I am sorry.” He doesn't bloody look sorry. “I tried to advise Sherlock not to contact you-”

“Oh, so that would have been _better_?” I spit. “How long were you going to let me believe he was dead?”

“The risk was too big, in my opinion, and it looks as though Sherlock has already made it worse by-”

“Then why did you come?” I turn to Sherlock. “If I'm such an inconvenience in the Holmes brothers' conspiring, why did you steal your stupid coat and come?”

Sherlock looks at me from under his eyelashes. I'm angry and I'm already regretting my words because I'm starting to realise just how close it was that he didn't come. The room is spinning when I imagine what it would have been like if they had stuck with Mycroft's version of the plan. I push the thought away, it's too painful to think about it even hypothetically.

“You kept asking me to”, Sherlock says, barely more than a whisper. “You- You left me red roses.”

I bury my head in my hands. I don't want to spend another day without him. I feel it so strongly that I might accidentally say it out loud.

“That may be the solution”, Mycroft softly says.

“What?” I ask, raising my head.

“If this is how the thought of Sherlock's absence affects you, it may be close enough to the grieving necessary.”

The laughter I produce sounds hollow. “You want to call that a solution.”

“You cannot be in touch”, Mycroft says. “Even texts, it would be too dangerous.”

“I need to know he's okay”, I protest.

“I will be sure to keep you posted as subtly as possible.”

“Fine. But as soon as everything has settled a bit, you're sending me to wherever Sherlock is.”

Mycroft contemplates this. “We can arrange it eventually. One year should be enough.”

“ _One year?_ ”

My eyes flicker back to Sherlock. He gives me the smallest nod: _We can do this._

“And what are _you_ going to do?” I ask Mycroft tartly. “Sit on your arse and wait for your brother to do all the work?”

Mycroft is unmoved. “I will work on clearing Sherlock's name, and I will focus on the London part of the network.”

“Then at least let me help with that.”

“I'm afraid I have to say no once more. You and I cannot be seen keeping company, or it would look suspicious. Frankly we never were the best of friends, Doctor Watson.”

“Oh, you got that right.” My rudeness is rewarded by a slight smile on Sherlock's lips.

“Well then”, Mycroft says and rises from his chair, turning to Sherlock. “Your flight leaves in an hour. We need to leave.”

“Would you give us a moment, please?” Sherlock asks, surprising me with his politeness. His face is too smooth and his eyes too indifferent, looking at his brother. Mycroft meets his gaze for a moment before giving one nod and leaving the flat.

***

Sherlock looks hesitantly at me. He opens his mouth, but I don't feel like talking. I close the distance between us and sneak my hands into his coat, put them on his warm waist. He closes his eyes as his arms slide around my shoulders, his chest presses against mine.

Sherlock Holmes is breathing.

I am breathing.

“I knew you'd give me a miracle”, I breathe against his neck.

“John”, he says.

“A pretty crazy and messy one, but I guess you don't get to choose how they come.”

“I will be back, John. At 221B, with you. If you would still want to.”

“Yeah, but let's be honest, it'll all continue to be crazy and messy afterwards, too. Just the way we are, right?”

I feel his chest constrict when he tries to laugh. “Right.”

I kiss him. I finally have enough presence of mind to kiss him properly, so I do it as slowly as I can, not willing to let one detail about his lips pass me unnoticed.

“I'll want to”, I murmur, brushing his nose with my own. “I'll wait for you.”

I draw my head back. It's so important that he understands, he must survive all this, he must come back. But now everything suddenly feels ten times more intimate than before, with the rush of adrenalin gone, and I have to close my eyes before presenting the words to him.

“I love you.”

I feel him watch me. Feels like sun on my face.

“John”, he eventually answers in a whisper.

I open my eyes and smile at him. “Good”, I say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the angst begins. I really did want to write something light, and wanted John to say fuck it all I'll keep Sherlock in my bedroom and just have sex with him for two years until this shit is over, but. As the Holmes brothers point out, it wouldn't really work, would it.
> 
> Writing this story was interesting, because this solution was literally the only one I could come up with, if Sherlock had revealed himself earlier than he did in canon. And it sure is better than John grieving for two years, but it's still pretty painful. Knowing that makes it a bit easier to cope with the excruciating agony of TRF and TEH.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope I'll see you tomorrow for the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

I walk across the graveyard. Try not to run past the last big monument blocking my view.

The purple flowers contrast against the black stone and I try not to show the crushing relief flowing through me. The graveyard looks empty, but you never know. If Moriarty's people are monitoring me, I would be surprised and disappointed if the didn't do it thoroughly.

The flowers are fresh. Always fresh. I never see when he leaves them, though. I don't know if he does it himself.

The purple makes me think of one of Sherlock's shirts, the one he looks so good in. I wonder if Mycroft knows, if that's why he chooses them. Well, that would be weird.

But they are purple every time.

***

Sherlock lives.

That's all I get. I live my boring grey life, work at my boring grey clinic, sleep in my boring grey flat. I agree to meet old friends only when their worry makes it necessary, and I visit Sherlock's grave.

I put my own flowers down, I stare at the purple ones and I know he's still alive.

I don't know if he is well. Don't even know where he is. Or if any of this makes a difference.

But I know he lives.

***

I don't see the world around me any more. I don't really care if it's raining (it's always bloody raining, anyway), I don't really listen when my friends are talking to me (I can't talk back because they can't possibly understand me), and I don't see if the new nurse at the clinic is attractive (and I hope Sherlock knows this. I hope he saw this on my face).

I miss Baker Street, and sometimes I want to move back in, but I think that would look suspicious at this point. It'd probably be too painful anyway, to see Sherlock in every inch of the place, and still the rooms are quiet and frighteningly calm without him. Like those first days after he died, before I found this new pitiful flat and fled. I don't want to be reminded of that indescribable pain.

So I lie in my new bed at night, twisting and turning. Try to reassure myself with the fact that there were flowers at the grave today, and that Sherlock was once in this very bed with me. I wish he had left some sort of imprint, though. Some proof that it actually did happen.

He probably did. There is probably some obscure little detail left in my bedroom from which you would be able to deduce that we had sex here. I wouldn't notice it, of course, but someone as clever as Sherlock would.

Somewhere in this room he has left a trace, and if he was here he would point it out to me and pretend to be irritated, and he would use every excuse to say my name.

That thought calms me enough to send me to sleep.

Not that I like sleeping. I dream of him falling and when I wake up, it takes all my willpower not to run to the graveyard in my pyjamas to check if there are any new purple flowers there.

***

People at work generally avoid me. They have noticed that I'm not interested in coping with my loss by taking my mind off it. The new nurse hasn't been let in on this, though. She keeps trying to make me sit with our colleagues at lunch and join them to the pub. I don't know why she insists and I wish I was as rude as Sherlock. That would really make them all leave me alone.

***

Sometimes weeks pass without any flowers. The grave is all bare and the golden letters burn in my eyes and I tell myself over and over that if he was dead, Mycroft would tell me. No flowers means he simply doesn't know.

Which really is bad enough and I'm close to going to strangle him on multiple occasions.

No flowers means Sherlock is out there and no one knows where, and he's on some mission that's probably as insane as it is dangerous, and he's all alone.

Having him come back from the dead is not at all a relief. I've worried about him constantly since that first night in 221B, when his eyes begged me not to ask about the drugs; and since then, every reckless thing he's done has only made the worry worse. But now it's fucking unbearable. Now I know how it feels when he dies.

One time the grave is empty for four weeks straight. I'm standing there, my own flowers already drenched in the rain, and I don't really know I've pulled out my phone until I'm staring at the screen. I scroll through the contacts and my thumb hovers over his name.

I stand like that for five minutes, probably still as a statue, until the phone goes off in my hand, making me jump and then sigh.

_Do not text him. He cannot read it anyway. Please delete this message immediately. MH_

I very nearly smash the phone against Sherlock's gravestone before leaving.

***

It also takes me weeks to notice that the new nurse is flirting with me. That's what that is. I almost laugh in her face when I figure it out, because that is certainly something Watson would have noticed. He also would have noticed she is attractive. Blonde, short hair, blue eyes. My guess is she's also funny, but I can't be sure since I rarely listen when she speaks. I watch her smile and touch my arm and can't even remember her name.

***

The purple flowers are back the week after. There is a single white one among them. The sight makes me shudder. It's the first time Mycroft breaks his flower pattern and I can guess what it means. And he tells me this in the sole purpose of plaguing me. Making my fucking grief believable.

Sherlock is alive. But it was a bloody close call this time.

***

“Hey, John!”

I turn around. It's the new nurse, whose name I have now made sure to look up. Mary. I don't remember when I told her to call me John, but whatever. I give her a friendly smile. I can afford it. Sherlock is alive.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you'd like to grab a drink later?” Her face is bright when she smiles.

“Sorry, a bit occupied.”

“Another night, then?” That is one hopeful smile.

Okay, that's enough of that.

“Mary, I should tell you. I'm not free.”

“Oh!” She looks surprised. Maybe she did know about my recent loss, then. “Sorry, I didn't realise”, she says, wrinkling her nose. “Send her my apologies. Or him?”

And I'm suddenly so bloody tired of this suffocating closet I'm sealed in, of not telling people that the love of my life turned out to be a man, and not being able to show him off in all his beauty and brilliance.

“I'll let him know.”

She watches me silently.

“No harm done”, I add and remember to smile.

I have a strange feeling she is watching me as I walk away.

***

I speak at the grave that day.

“Just come back to me, Sherlock. I don't want to keep doing this without you. Come back. Let me hold you.”

The fresh, purple flowers don't answer. I wish they could at least hear me but they are inanimate, I know they can't.

***

Turns out Mary _is_ funny. She isn't put off by the fact that I turned her down. Instead she insists that we could be friends.

In essence I agree with her. We seem to have stuff in common. She's interesting, she's witty, and she seems to enjoy my company for some reason. She doesn't ask too much about my boyfriend, and she doesn't try to flirt again, so I guess she isn't doing much harm.

I feel uneasy when I talk to her, though. Her clever eyes make me feel exposed, and my secret feels especially tangible. I make sure to keep our conversations shallow, learning how bloody difficult it is to make new friends when you can't tell them about the one thing on your mind.

In my flat, I am alone. But it's when I try to speak to other people that I feel truly lonely.


	4. Chapter 4

My phone buzzes with texts all morning. If I didn't already know the date painfully well, they would all make it pretty impossible to forget.

_Visiting the grave at noon, maybe see you there. Fancy a pint tonight? Call me if you need anything._

I don't answer a single one of them and make sure to wait until well after noon to visit the grave.

It's full of flowers today, of course. Sherlock would be able to deduce who brought which ones, and I try to as well. The yellow ones are Mrs Hudson, for sure. I can't tell about the rest of them.

No purple ones. Instead I stare at the big bouquet in the middle.

Red roses.

“Those weren't my choice, of course”, I hear behind me. “Someone sent a request. They were quite stringent about the kind of flowers and the particular time at which they should be delivered.”

I turn to Mycroft who comes to stand beside me, looking at the gravestone. He has not changed one bit in the year since I last saw him. I hope he hasn't been sitting on his arse doing nothing all that time, because he certainly looks like someone who has.

“And when did you receive this special request?” I ask him in a low voice, barely moving my mouth.

“No more than four days ago.”

“Really?” I look at the roses and can't help but smile.

This is the first message in one year that goes directly from him to me, so he has thought about it carefully. He wants me to look at the flowers and make a deduction. It's simple enough.

One year with no contact at all, and he still loves me.

“Red roses”, I say, and a chuckle escapes me. “That bastard, he's secretly a romantic, isn't he?”

“Oh, I think you'd be surprised, should you still be inclined to pursue that kind of relationship.”

“Should I still be inclined…! Are you kidding me?”

Mycroft nods thoughtfully, twisting the tip of his umbrella against the ground.

“I have some news for you”, he finally says in his even voice. “I have been working for the last twelve months to map out the part of Moriarty's network still existing in England. It was crucial to have all the information before acting, lest we gave ourselves away. I am pleased to tell you that the operation was orchestrated yesterday with a satisfactory outcome.”

I watch him, trying to pierce through that shield of pleasantry. “And what does that mean?”

“It means you, John Watson, are no longer closely monitored by Moriarty's people for proof that Sherlock really is dead.”

I look back at the roses, my chest starting to glow.

“The flowers were to be put here on the day when it's safe for you to leave London and go to my brother, if you wish it.”

“Oh my God”, I whisper. It's over. We made it. “Where is he?”

Mycroft's mouth tenses, as if he's unsatisfied with my response. “He's currently working on the small branch of the network located in Sweden. Last time I spoke to him he was still in the process of gathering data. However, I have not heard from him in four days, and must assume he is now in the middle of an operation that may be delicate.”

I hate the way this man speaks. _Delicate_ , that could mean fucking anything, couldn't it? Could mean Sherlock's gone to bloody war against an army of vampires or something.

“John”, Mycroft continues, “there are certain things I must be clear about. The labours of my people do not mean that neither my brother nor you are out of danger. It only means no one is spying on you right this instant. But if any suspicion regarding my brother's passing arises, the situation would immediately become critical for you, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade. Sherlock cannot reveal himself until every last bit of the network is dismantled.”

“I know”, I tell him impatiently. Could he at least stop taking me for an idiot? “I won't tell anyone. Just get me to him as fast as possible.”

Mycroft is silent for another few seconds. “There is a seat reserved for you on the next flight to Stockholm. You can leave immediately.”

“Now? I-”

“You don't need to concern yourself with packing, I have people waiting for my order to arrange that for you. I will also inform your employer of your leave of absence. Unless you feel there's someone you need to bid farewell-”

“No. No, I don't. I want to leave at once.” I purse my lips. “My gun is-”

“I know where your gun is”, Mycroft says in a dry voice. “It will not be left behind.” I nod, really trying not to smile. “John”, Mycroft goes on, insisting on being grave on this happy day. “I will get you to the airport, and I will provide you with the details of Sherlock's current accommodation. However, I feel I must emphasise the risks with this operation. I would be sending you straight into-”

“I don't care. Come on, do you really think I'd back away from him?”

Something similar to satisfaction finally crosses Mycroft's eyes. I stare back at him, setting my chin as a soldier, giving him my Captain Watson stare. _I will take care of your brother._

“Well then”, he says smoothly, waving his umbrella about. “Best of luck.”

***

Outside the window, the air is clear and cloud-free. Only a thin mist blurs the shapes of the ground beneath me. The sun burns bright beside me and casts a stripe of warmth across my lap. The coast underneath me disappears when we fly out over the sea.

It's silly, really, how happy I feel by simply watching a blue sky and sun, but I don't care about the silliness. Better embrace it, no one can see me anyway – well, no one I know. The lady in the next seat might soon start thinking I'm weird.

In the end, this is how easy it was to leave England behind me. For every passing minute, my boring grey flat fades further away. Remarkable how a whole year of boring grey everyday life can just disappear from my mind so quickly. It feels like it was a year of sleep, like none of it was ever real life anyway.

Nothing but my life with Sherlock is real, I guess. Nothing else will do.

My God, this flight makes me soppy.

I think about his lips against mine. I think about his body underneath me. I think about the way he says my name. I think about his face when I pushed inside him. I remember every sound he made, every word he said, I have saved every detail of our one time together. I have turned them over in my mind every day like treasures. I know them by heart now.

The realisation that I am currently flying to more of that almost makes me laugh out loud. Dear God, I'll explode. The lady beside me glances at me when my chest heaves, and I turn my face towards the window to hide my stupid grin. I feel like shaking her by the shoulders, shouting:

_I'm seeing Sherlock Holmes!_

***

The sky is still clear when we land. I wait impatiently at the baggage claim and rush out to get a taxi as soon as I have my suitcase. I give the driver the address to what turns out to be a pretty shabby hostel in town. It's not until I step out of the cab that I get nervous. Sherlock could be inside this building.

It seems Mycroft has pulled some strings, and the hostel staff are expecting me. After checking my ID they give me a key to Sherlock's room and before I know it I'm standing with the receptionist at the door, finding it's too late to oscillate outside it.

A gentle knock, then I put the key in the lock.

Room's empty.

I close the door behind me, almost relieved. I draw a breath and feel my childish smile reappear. It smells like Sherlock in here.

The room is small, and it's a mess, as could be expected. The bag on the floor is wide open, laundry strewn over every surface. His computer stands on the small table, and beside it lie heaps of notes and maps. The narrow bed, however, is neatly made. I try not to stare at it for too long.

Then I change my mind and cross the distance to it, reaching for the pillow and pressing it to my face. Inhale.

Sweet Jesus. He was really here.

I put it back down before I start drenching it in tears – he'd know at once, wouldn't he.

Oh who am I kidding, he'll know already. My genius.

I walk over to the table, sweeping my eyes over the notes for some kind of clue about where he is and when he will be back. Impossible, of course. I've never been able to understand his notes, plus a lot of it seems to be in Swedish. Instead I just brush my fingers over them lightly, smiling at the familiar handwriting.

Well, if I'm going to wait, I might as well take a shower.

***

The evening falls slowly. The city of Stockholm seems to be suspended in a state of perpetual sunset, and the lukewarm summer evening flows in through the open window. The sun glistens on the asphalt, standing so low it makes everything difficult to see properly. And even as the sun eventually sets, the darkness doesn't come immediately. First there is this grey air, giving the city a secretive atmosphere.

As slowly as the darkness envelops the city, my worry builds up again. After two hours in Sherlock's empty room I feel stupid for not worrying before. Mycroft did say Sherlock was in the middle of something and hasn't been in contact for four days. He probably doesn't even know I'm here.

I clutch my phone in my hand, but I don't dare to call him. I sit on the rickety chair, feeling my gun press against my lower back underneath my jacket, and I wait. I wish someone would finally acknowledge the fact that I'm good for a lot of stuff other than waiting. I've fucking done enough of that now.

When there is a quiet knock on the door I curse silently. Something isn't right. I open the door wearily for the woman who gave me the key.

“Good evening, Doctor Watson. There's a phone call for you.”

She holds out a phone for me, looking slightly bewildered. I hesitantly take it.

“Hello?”

“John”, Mycroft says. Damn it. It's bad. “Please see to that you are out of hearing range, to allow us a discussion in peace.”

I sigh and give the woman my most apologetic smile, wondering what scary things Mycroft has told her to make her lend me her private phone like this. “I'm so sorry, this seems to be important”, I tell her. “Can I get back to you at the desk when I'm done?”

“Sure”, she says without looking sure at all, but she lets me close the door again.

“I already know you're omnipotent, Mycroft. Why do you never just call me on my own bloody phone?”

“Just a precaution. It is possible your phone has been compromised, and I would rather this conversation remain private.”

“Okay, what's going on?”

“I have sent a taxi to your hostel, ready to take you away from there. There has been a complication, putting you in immediate danger. Preferably, if you make it to the British Embassy, I can see to that you leave the country as safely as possible.”

“What, why? I'm not leaving now.”

“I'm afraid it's not up for discussion.”

I'm doing my best to ignore the feeling of falling, the way the world blackens in the corners of my eyes, the way I'm breathing as if I'll soon be forced to stop. “They know, don't they? They know he's alive.”

“There simply isn't time to discuss-”

 _Watson, fight._ “I don't care! Tell me what's going on or I won't leave this room.”

I can practically hear Mycroft close his eyes and put his hand over them. “Sherlock has been captured by Moriarty's associates”, he says plainly. “I am assured of his well-being for now, and I am working on a way to extract him.”

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. “Have you spoken to him?”

“No, but I have received a picture from his capturers. They are holding him for blackmail against me.”

I frown. “That doesn't sound like Moriarty.”

“No, it doesn't. Which is why we can assume the perpetrators are not from the inner circle of the network. The good news is, this is a considerable advantage for us, because if they had been in closer connection to Moriarty, their goal would have been to kill Sherlock.”

I draw a shuddering breath. “And the bad news?”

“They must have known he was coming. They were ready for him, and knew about who he is and his kinship with me. This means they already knew he is alive. And since they are not from the inner circle, it is unlikely they were the ones to figure that out. Meaning…”

“Someone tipped them off”, I breathe.

“There are three people who know Sherlock is alive; Molly Hooper, you, and myself. Someone has gathered this information from one of us. Hence my reluctance to use your phone.”

“But you said you took care of Moriarty's connections in London.”

“It would seem I have made a mistake. Someone must have passed under my radar.”

“How the fuck could you let that happen?” I hiss.

“John”, Mycroft says, hard as a stone. “Most probably this leakage originates from yourself.”

Oh, that is rich coming from the man who gave Moriarty the tools to complete his plan. “I would never betray him and you know it!” I snap.

“Well, it doesn't matter where they got the information. The important part is that this person is one of Moriarty's agents, and we can assume they are operating under orders he gave while still alive. This order is likely that if Sherlock is found alive, they are to kill you, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade, and then proceed to kill Sherlock himself.”

I draw a breath, but he answers before I can ask: “I have people securing Mrs Hudson and the DI as we speak. Now I need you to put yourself in safety. The agent has most likely followed you to Stockholm, and it would surprise me if they didn't know at which hostel Sherlock is staying.”

I give a hard sigh. “If so, wouldn't they have gotten me by now?”

“Let's just be happy about what we have and use our minor advantage. Get out of there as fast as humanly possible. The cab is already waiting.”

“And what about Sherlock?” I demand. “Is the police looking for him?”

“As you well know, the police is not an option. No authorities can know that Sherlock is alive.”

I clench my hand around the phone. “So what are you going to do?”

“Sherlock's situation is probably not as urgent as your own. There are conflicting interests between his kidnappers and the agent tipping them off; they can't use his dead body for blackmail, which is why I'm hoping I have some time.”

“You're _hoping_?”

Mycroft sighs impatiently. “It's the best I can do for the moment.”

“Well it's not bloody good enough.”

“ _Doctor Watson._ You must believe my sincerity when I tell you that, just like you, my priority would be to save my brother before you. I'm working on that to the very best of my ability, but there is nothing I can do for him at the moment. In the meantime, I am left with the knowledge that Sherlock was prepared to take his own life to ensure your safety. Do not let his sacrifice be in vain by staying at that hostel for a second longer than necessary.”

“Fine, I'm leaving”, I snarl and disconnect the call. I have my hand at the door handle when my own phone buzzes.

A text from a hidden number, a picture attached to it. My body turns to ice when I open it to see Sherlock, sitting on a chair with his hands tied behind his back. He has a gag tied over his mouth and a black eye. His intensely pale eyes are turned straight to the camera, staring into it in challenge.

_Spectacular view at Västerlånggatan 73 tonight. Miss your boyfriend? ;)_

I don't even hesitate. Dart out of the room, shove the receptionist's phone at her, throw myself out the door and into the waiting cab.

“Good evening”, the driver says cheerfully. “The British Embassy?”

“No”, I tell her, panting. “Västerlånggatan.”

I open the text again and forward it to Mycroft. He immediately calls back, but I don't pick up.

_Do not go there on your own. This is a trap. MH_

I scoff at the text. As if I didn't know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I brought them to my country. Feels nice to have them close for a little while. And you, dear reader!


	5. Chapter 5

When the taxi drives into Old Town, Stockholm is as dark as it gets. It's still brighter than London is at this hour, though, the midsummer sun never too far below the horizon.

The driver stops at the beginning of Västerlånggatan Street. I get out of the car, and when it drives away the street is empty. The air has become chilly despite the warmth during the day.

Stockholm Old Town is a district of heavy stone houses, beautifully coloured and with ornamented doors and window frames. The streets are narrow, the stones on the pavement uneven and worn. Västerlånggatan stretches through the middle of it, lined with cafés, boutiques and countless souvenir shops. The alleys to the sides are so narrow you could almost touch both walls at the same time, the houses so tall they obscure most of the sky.

Number 73 can't be far down the street. I walk close to the wall on the right side, my back straight but my feet silent and fast in that way the war taught me – and later my life with a certain mad consulting detective.

The slim door is squeezed in between two souvenir shops, the show windows cluttered with painted wooden Dala horses, blue-yellow hats, and stuffed animals vaguely resembling elks. The lights are on in a few windows above the shops. I stop, quickly draw my gun from under the waistband of my jeans, and then I knock at the wood beneath the number 73. The capturers weren't the ones who sent me the address, so they'll be unprepared for me coming.Knocking is the polite thing to do, isn't it.

I hear the sounds of footsteps on stairs, then the lock starts clicking. I act almost before the door is entirely open, the metal of my gun crashing into the skull of the man inside. He doesn't even make a sound when falling to the floor. Idiot. I climb over his unconscious body blocking the doorway, finding myself looking up a dark, narrow stairwell with a sharp corner a few steps up.

I meet the next one right as I round the corner. This one shouts before I smack his head as well.

I remain standing for a moment, listening. The house is quiet, not even my own breaths are particularly loud. I feel calm in an almost dangerous way. These guys are lucky if this is the only thing I do to them for laying a hand on my Sherlock.

The first landing is tiny and dark, with one closed door. The stairs disappear further up, but this seems to be the only room on the second floor. My gun is a comfortable weight in my hand when I open the door.

A big room. Wooden floor, high ceiling, white walls. In the middle stands a chair, and on it sits Sherlock Holmes with his legs tied to the chair's legs, and his arms behind his back.

He is unusually dressed in summer clothes. In London he always insists on wearing his expensive suits regardless of season, but they're gone now. His shorts end just above the knees, and I've literally never seen Sherlock in shorts, I've rarely even seen his legs apart from when I've bandaged them up after some reckless chase. His calves are not as skinny as you'd think when you see him; they are quite muscular, and they definitely deserve my attention at some point when I have a bit more time in hand. He clearly still cares about his appearances, since his t-shirt clings to his chest and upper arms in a ridiculously flattering way.

The t-shirt is purple. As if he knew.

Sherlock's eyes go impossibly wide when he sees me. I can't help but smile.

“What are you doing here?” I say playfully, because the gag tied over his mouth stops him from asking me this question.

The sound of my voice triggers a dramatic change in his expression. His brow wrinkles together in a way I have never seen on him, and his eyes are filling with tears. He stares at me, radiating some mixture of fear, relief and tenderness.

I close the distance and tuck the gun back under my waistband, but Sherlock shakes his head violently.

“Hold still, you idiot, let me take this off you.”

He bows his head slightly, letting me untie the gag.

“John”, he gasps as soon as his mouth is free. “Take out your gun!”

“I can't”, I say, crouch behind his back and start working on the wires around his wrists. “I need my hands to free you.”

“Please”, he begs, his voice broken in despair. “You must be prepared-”

“Are there more than two?” I ask.

“No, but someone else is coming. Take out your gun!”

“I'm not leaving you like this”, I tell him calmly, concentrating on the knot as I try to outsmart it.

“ _John_. They know I'm alive. I thought- I thought you would be dead already.” His voice is urgent and impossibly vulnerable, but I don't have time to feel the weight of what he's saying, I need to get into this bloody knot. “The fact that you aren't”, he goes on, articulating as if trying to push the words into me, “means one of Moriarty's closest assassins is behind this, they are here, and they plan to kill you in front of me.”

“Well then we really need to get you out of this.”

I grunt when the knot finally gives in, then quickly move around and kneel in front of Sherlock to untie his leg. He bends down to work on the other leg, his head bumping into mine in his hurry. I tear at the wire around his ankle as I raise my head, finding his face so close to mine I can barely make out his expression. His eyes are piercing through mine.

“Hello”, I mumble.

A fierceness flashes in his eyes and I feel his breath come rushing against my lips. I get a glimpse of his face crumbling, before he bends further down and fingers at the knot.

“You can't die, John”, he whispers so silently I'm not sure if I imagined it.

Then he freezes. I automatically still myself, listening for whatever he heard.

“They're here”, he hisses. “Go. I'll take care of this. _John._ ”

I rise while Sherlock continues to furiously work on the ties. While I move towards the door I hear the sounds of struggle from the first floor. My gun is already in my hand when I reach the landing. That is also when the sound of a shot tears the night air apart.

I fly down the stairs, jumping over the still unconscious man splayed over them. When I round the corner I hold the gun steadily before me, pausing on the step.

There's a woman standing on the foot of the stairs, entirely dressed in black and with a cap on her head. The gun in her hand is pointed directly at me, but she halts when she sees me. The first man I knocked out when I entered the building is lying on the floor behind her in a pool of blood. I silently thank him for waking up at just the right moment to slow her down.

And then she smiles and my stomach does a funny thing, as if it's falling out of my body.

“Mary?!”

Her smile turns smug, as if she enjoys being able to surprise me.

“Hi, John”, she says sweetly. “I'm pleased to see you here. Though it didn't exactly take much to persuade you to come.”

She looks so wrong in this context, in the Swedish night, dressed like this, standing by a corpse holding a fucking weapon, and I have been thoroughly fooled, haven't I. “You sent the text. It was – _you._ ”

“You were very slow”, she tells me.

“You've been bloody spying on me.” How extensively?

I race through my memories of her – they are actually quite many, and still none of them seems to have made a big enough impression to be remembered clearly. I search for any sign, any time I should have seen this coming. She chuckles, a hint of mockery in it.

“You look sweet when you're trying to think, John. You should leave that to the genius instead. Is he up yet, your precious boyfriend?”

I briefly close my eyes when I remember what it was that made her figure the lie out.

“Oh yes, John”, she says as if reading my thinking on my face – and I hate when people do that, only Sherlock Holmes is bloody allowed to do that – “you really shouldn't have said that. Telling me you're in a relationship a few months after he died? Pretty improbable that you'd found yourself someone new already, and a _man_ on top of that.”

There's still no sight of Sherlock. I make sure to keep my gaze firmly fixed on Mary, but I can see the door on the second floor from the corner of my eye and there hasn't been a single movement.

“Stop speaking to me like you know me”, I say. “I've never been real with you.”

Sherlock really should have gotten himself free by now. He's going to do something stupid, isn't he.

“Please, John”, Mary says condescendingly. “It wasn't exactly a secret that before Sherlock jumped, you were an extremely closeted bisexual in love with your best friend. That was obvious even back at the pool.”

She laughs, and it doesn't even sound evil, it sounds like she's genuinely having a good time.

Funny, sweet, witty Mary lurking in the shadows of a public pool with a gun, prepared to use it at the snap of Moriarty's fingers. Red dots on Sherlock's chest, me sweating inside a jacket and a bomb vest, legs melting under me like cookie dough. Him on his knees in front of me, me accidentally flirting with him. The joy of being able to laugh together one more time, to see him pace about in his gorgeous suit and scratch his head with a fucking gun, beyond himself with relief that I was all right, telling me the _thing_ I offered to do was _good_.

I really would have died for him. Or with him. Anything.

I wish that moment had been ours alone.

“You think you know everything about me”, I hiss, gripping the gun tighter.

Mary snorts. “Yeah, I've known you way longer than you've known me – though I guess you never actually did know me. Hm, shame. I think we could've made a good pair. You seem attracted to danger and, well, I certainly would have kept you in trouble.”

“What are you-”

“That's what you like, isn't it. I would have given it to you at least as much as your precious Sherlock Holmes did.”

I try not to get upset but it doesn't work, her arrogance disgusts me. “That's not the same thing. What the hell makes you think I would ever want to be with an assassin?”

“Does this come from some sort of moral good-and-evil illusion? Really, John, that is beyond naive. Let me tell you that the world isn't that simple. Some people shouldn't be alive, and that's why there are people like me. I'd have thought a soldier would understand this.”

“And do you have even _one_ good reason why Sherlock Holmes shouldn't be alive?”

“He broke the rules”, she says simply as if that's even a fucking answer. “It's not allowed to break the rules. So before he dies, he'll learn his lesson, according to the agreement. I will burn the heart out of him.”

She cocks her head, calling out a bit louder:

“Sherlock? You really should have made a better job of hiding it. You've made it all too obvious where your heart is.” Her gun points steadily at my chest.

“If you pull that trigger”, I say, “I will pull mine. I will never let you touch Sherlock. You should know that after the pool; I'll die for him if I have to.”

“Ooh, you're really would, wouldn't you. Like a loyal old dog. That's adorable.” Her eyes glisten.

“What about you, then? You prepared to die for this?”

“Oh, yes. It's just I'd rather stay alive long enough to see the look on Sherlock's face when I shoot you.”

I know Sherlock has some plan to break this stalemate, but I don't know if my dread outweighs my impatience for it. It definitely tips over to dread the moment Sherlock crashes down onto the pavement outside the door. He lands on his feet, at least almost, quickly gathering his balance back. He looks incredibly vulnerable in his t-shirt and shorts behind Mary's black pants and jacket, and without anything that could even creatively be used as a weapon. I would fucking kill him for this, if not for the fact that he wouldn't be able to defend himself when I tried, and that there already is an assassin standing between us who seems very much up for doing the job for me.

Damn him.

Mary heard the thud behind her, of course, what trained assassin bloody wouldn't, and she doesn't yet know he's unarmed. I see the decision flash in her eyes; I won't kill her if she's fast enough, I won't risk her shooting Sherlock and she's right. She spins around, her gun following her movement, and Sherlock springs forward, using her movement to grab her wrist and snatch the gun from her hand.

I barely have time to register the fact that I could take aim now, before my feet get knocked out from under me and I fall on my back hard on the stairs. The air is punched out of my lungs and the Swedish guy I took down before rolls on top of me, grabbing my neck.

I try to hit him again but my arm is trapped, so instead I go for kicking. It takes a few kicks until I get a good hit and he falls off me, collapsing backwards down the few steps underneath us. When he finally lands on his neck, he doesn't move.

I look up again, my lungs still not working properly, and immediately know that the seconds I lost were important ones. Because Mary has dragged Sherlock over the corpse in the doorway and into the hall, the both of them a tangle of fists and kicks and growls, and Mary has gotten the gun back. She has gotten her gun back from Sherlock and I scramble for my own and I am entirely unable to look away when she manages to put the barrel against the middle of his chest.

They're standing close. Stare at each other. Sherlock has a grip around her other wrist. Looks as if they're shaking hands. Sharing some secret they won't let me in on.

The moment lasts for such a pathetic fraction of a second that I don't even have time to scream his name. My hand is numb around my gun and I aim without being able to think.

Mary's index finger pulls the trigger.

***

The world is completely silent the moment before I fire. The only sounds still remaining is my messy breathing, it rips through me and I hear every quiver of it, every ugly, ragged sound. And I have never heard my own heart so clearly, it sounds like it's beating my rib cage up in fury at what I've done to it. That I allowed Sherlock to be ripped right out of it.

Mary's head lifts to look at me. Her eyes are wide, her face unguarded in that moment and the image of it saves itself in my brain. It strikes me in this short, short time what a paradox she is. In a way she looks so familiar, so ordinary and mundane. The friendly face at work every morning, the person I complain to about the rain. The charming woman I could perhaps have convinced myself I wanted, in another time and space. Because so very good is she at hiding that mockery lurking just behind her clever eyes; if I had wanted to badly enough, I could have willed myself to miss it. And now here it is, in all its glory, and I'm guessing this is the real her. The empathy lacking assassin who put a bullet through the chest of my very best friend.

My gun aims at her forehead and she looks at me for this tiny fraction of a second, the ridiculously short amount of time I am late to do this. My face feels cold and my eyes feel burning when I meet her eyes.

I fire.

The tearing sound sears through me –

– and only then do I realise what was missing. The same sound should have been heard a second ago as well.

But it was all completely silent.

Mary falls backwards, her gun flying out of her hand. Sherlock takes a sharp step back from her, letting go of her wrist. I scramble to my feet, staring at the smooth front of Sherlock's t-shirt, and then up at his face. His voice of honey pours through me, slightly reproachful.

“Head shots are messy, John. Not very pleasant standing in close proximity when they go off.”

“Sherlock-” My voice scarcely sounds human, more like a mixture of breath and squeaks. “Are you okay?”

“Obviously.” He sees me staring at his chest, and he looks down with a frown that would have been hilarious if I didn't currently feel like it was me having had a near-death experience. “Oh, yes”, he says when he understands my concern. “I emptied the magazine.”

“You-” He has the audacity to stand there and look almost bored. “You utter-” I can't even choose a bad word to call him, because how ridiculous is this man – he probably has some stupid super powers, and I'm a complete fool for running behind him trying to save him all the time when there's really no need, because Sherlock Holmes can't die, can he. Instead of words only hysterical giggles come out of me, it's all very embarrassing and I practically fall down the rest of the stairs and I collapse into Sherlock's arms, and apparently he doesn't see what's funny but he does hold me, and he lets me cling to him and perhaps he's clinging a tiny bit as well.

I feel like my giggles are suffocating me, and as soon as I'm able to suck in a breath I let go.

“We should get out of here right now.”

“We will”, Sherlock says. He turns towards the still open door, and in that moment a black car pulls over outside. “That's our ride”, he says, starting to climb over the bodies strewn on the floor.

“Wait”, I say, grabbing his arm, my other hand tightening around my gun. “That could be more of Moriarty's people.”

“No, it's Mycroft.”

“How do you know?”

“John”, he sighs impatiently, “we don't have time, we need to get out before the police get here.”

That's a very good point. I manage not to step in any blood when I follow him out onto the street, and we fold ourselves into the back seat of the car. The driver is silent and the car starts moving immediately after I've closed the door.

I let my head drop back against the headrest, closing my eyes, breathing. My chest smiles at the sensation of rushing air. Breathing only feels this fucking good after a fight like that.

A hesitant poke touches my hand, drawing back at once as if regretting it. I smile and capture his hand without looking up.

“You are ridiculous and insane”, I tell him matter-of-factly.

“So you say.”

I open my eyes. “Where are we going?”

“The hostel.”

I frown, studying his face. “But that's not good, is it? They probably know-”

“No, there's no _they_ ”, Sherlock interrupts. “She was alone.”

“How do you know?” I ask once again, this time more curious than doubting.

“She stood in a deadlock with you for quite a while. She could have killed you, but you would have likely killed her too in the process. She was unwilling to let this happen, maybe because she wasn't prepared to die for this. However, she was Moriarty's right hand. He wouldn't have chosen her if she wouldn't participate in a suicide mission for him. He needed to count on her doing that even after his own death, and he did.”

“Okay”, I say slowly. “So why didn't she kill me?”

“Because she was the only one who knew. If she died killing you, there would be no one to finish the job and kill _me_ , because no one else in the network knows I'm alive. She deduced I'm alive when she spied on you, and when she found out you were going to Stockholm, she knew at once which part of the network I was working on. She contacted the Swedes and told them about me, only so they would capture me for her. When she received the picture from them, she sent it to you to get us both in the same place, so she could watch me being tortured by your murder. Seems she wanted to keep that mission for herself.”

“That is awful”, I murmur.

“She didn't seem very nice”, Sherlock agrees, dropping his eyes to our hands. I become aware of my slowly caressing his hand with my thumb.

“How long to the hostel?” I ask in a low voice.

He silently draws a breath. “Nine minutes.” He meets my gaze and corrects himself. “Eight and a half.”

I feel a small smile floating on my lips. I may be able to wait that long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of Mary for me. Up until now, she has been this silent shadowy character in my fics, never speaking but always getting in the way. So I thought I'd write her just once, show her true nature, have our boys defeat her, and then I can just never write her again. Bye-bye now, sucker.
> 
> See you for the last chapter tomorrow!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, dear friends, we have reached the end of this tale. Thank you for sticking with me throughout, and please say hi in the comments - I love to hear from you!

I let go of Sherlock's hand when I climb out of the car. We enter the hostel in silence. For every step I take towards the room, I get more nervous. As if I'm a shy teenager with my first boyfriend, about to enter his room which I know only contains one narrow bed. It's ridiculous, but also almost true.

Sherlock puts the key in the lock and walks inside. I draw a deep breath before I follow him and close the door behind me, surrounding us with darkness, the only light coming from the street lamp outside the window. I can make out the silhouette of Sherlock. He has stopped in the middle of the room, standing completely still.

The adrenalin still rushes in my blood and I want nothing more than to press Sherlock against the nearest piece of furniture and claim him. That's what we should have done after every single case, and to be honest we were pretty close a number of times. Stupid heteronormativity kept me from noticing, back then.

But there's something in the air between us now, telling me I need to tread carefully. Instead of moving towards him, I go to the bedside table and switch the lamp on. I meet his gaze.

“Hey”, I say quietly. It is a relief to be able to use this kind of voice with him now, away from the drama and danger. The world has thankfully quietened down and left us alone for a moment.

“Hello”, he answers with a nod, sounding almost formal.

We stare at each other and this is not so simple, is it. One year and two hundred visits to his grave since I kissed him; and on his part, who the hell even knows where he's been. It seemed easy this morning with the red roses and the plane; _Go get your man, Watson_.

But the reality of it strikes me now harder than ever. Purple flowers sometimes with week's intervals. A single white one among them. I know he must have gotten injured at least once, but I have no idea how, and I don't know how it has changed him. He is pale, the black eye is blooming distinctly, and he looks back at me stoically but without his usual air of being untouchable.

Damn it, I need to say something.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes”, he says but I hear it's a lie.

He doesn't have a bullet in his chest, his skull is intact, but he's not okay and I can't make him be. All I can do is take care of him when he isn't, and I'll do it in any way I can.

“Here”, I say, “let me look at your wrists.”

“I'm fine”, he says automatically.

“Yeah, I know. But let me see.”

He holds out his hands and takes one careful step towards me. I take it as permission to close the distance between us and gently take his hands in mine. The wires that tied him are etched into his skin in red.

“Let me put some ointment on that.”

I dig in my suitcase – kind of an uncanny experience, since I didn't pack it myself but it still contains every single thing I would have put in it. I don't even know who did this, and I think I really don't want to either. Anyway, this nameless person has indeed packed ointment. I sit on the edge of the pedantically made bed. “Come here”, I tell him softly.

He sits down beside me, holding out his hands once more. He flinches when I touch the wounds.

“I worried about you”, I say while I work as carefully as I only can. “All the time.”

He doesn't answer.

“I can't believe I let you deal with all that without me”, I continue. “I wouldn't trust anyone else to protect you properly, not even if Mycroft put his best people on it.”

“Please”, Sherlock says dismissively. “I wouldn't work with Mycroft's minions.”

I glance at him. He keeps his eyes fixed on the movement of my hands over his skin. “Not at all?”

He shakes his head.

“You mean you were all alone the entire time?”

He makes a face, I don't know if it's at my words or if I hurt his wounds.

“It was fine”, he lies again. “Everything else was too risky anyway.”

I'm done with the ointment, strictly speaking, but I keep doing the same soothing movements. He's on the verge of saying whatever it is that's haunting him, I feel his words in the air and I wait for them patiently.

“I thought you were dead”, he eventually says. “I was _positive_. For two hours. That you were dead.”

Well, that's… relatable.

I look at him again, but he looks like he'd rather not be seen in this moment, so I give him his privacy and focus on his hands instead. They are beautiful, by the way. If I try to really take in their beauty my heart breaks from it, that's how lovely they are.

“And it was my fault”, he goes on, barely audible. “The instructions were simple; kill yourself, or John dies. And I selfishly chose to risk your life in order to stay alive.”

“No, Sherlock, that was not a selfish thing.”

His mouth closes, his jaw looks tense, and he keeps staring at our hands.

“Two hours, you say?” I ask. “Imagine making that twenty days. And attending my funeral and visiting my grave.”

His eyes close slowly and he releases a breath.

“That's not-” He cuts himself off. “John, do you- I mean, are you-” He takes an impatient breath, irritated with himself for not getting the words out. “Did you mean-”

I smile soothingly at him, though he still doesn't look at me. “Can you finish one of those sentences for me, please? I'll answer.”

“Was that really what it felt like?” he asks. “For you?”

“No, it was worse. I can't even describe it. Please don't make me describe it.”

He opens his eyes and gives me a brief look before glancing away. “Perhaps the image of a human body falling to the ground is traumatising-”

“Yeah, no kidding. That's not it, though, and I think you know it. I asked you to deduce it, and I think you did.”

His brow is furrowed. He thinks for a moment, still not looking at me, but when he speaks again his dry and detached voice is back.

“I know it was an intense experience for you, finding out I was still alive after attending my funeral. And whatever happened after, it's been a year now. I know you've probably had time to rethink what we did, and if you decide that it's not something you want to pursue further, I wouldn't hold it against you.”

Oh. I'm an idiot, really, and I'm dead wrong. Sherlock Holmes isn't immortal at all.

“Sherlock”, I say in an almost singing voice. “Now I need you to look at me. Will you?”

He reluctantly obeys, his eyes guarded and careful.

“You have no idea how much I've missed you, Sherlock. I thought about you all the time. My life is so boring without you, you can probably imagine. No cases, no excitement, no maniac blowing up eyeballs in my microwave.” He rolls his eyes at that, and I smile. “But do you know what I've been thinking about most? That one hour we had before you left. I've wanted nothing more than to do that again with you, Sherlock. That was not a spur-of-the-moment thing for me, that's something we should have done all along, if you ask me. I don't even know how long I've been in love with you, and I feel like a fool for needing you to bloody die before I realised it. That was pathetic, really, and I'm sorry about that.”

“You are not pathetic, John.”

My name on his lips, God, I'd almost forgotten how sweet it is. I can't help but smile. He searches my face with his brilliant eyes, a hesitant light starting to shine in them.

“What about you?” I ask silently.

“Yes”, he says briskly. “Right. That. I- I should tell you.”

Oh, he's adorable. He'd huff at me if he knew I thought so, but seriously. So solemn, so meticulous, so shy. I lift my hand and put it against his cheek.

“Do you want to kiss for a bit before you tell me?” I ask.

His breath hitches. “That would be good”, he gravely agrees.

I lean forward and press my lips gently to his. Oh my God – yeah, I've totally managed to forget how _that_ felt, even though I've been obsessing over the memories of it. It's like his lips can subtly tilt the universe, making everything wrong in it suddenly be right.

I keep my hand still on his cheek, scarcely moving my lips against him. He remains entirely still until I release his mouth.

“ _I_ know how long”, he whispers, his breath ghosting over my lips.

“Yeah?” I draw my head back and look at his closed eyes. “How long, then?”

He clears his throat. “Since the day I met you.” His voice is ragged when it breaks through the whisper.

Christ, these feelings in my chest are too much for one poor man to harbour alone.

“I love you”, I tell him.

He opens his eyes, and the hesitation is gone from them. He looks at me in awe, his face open and glowing. It feels like missing a step on the stairs; seeing such clear proof of how he loves me. Maybe he sees the same thing in me, because he says: “You do, don't you.”

“I really do, yeah.” My mouth has taken on a small but seemingly perpetual smile. I'll soon start looking like an idiot, but I can't help it.

“Hmm. So now I should say it back, right?”

“You don't have to, if you don't want.”

Sherlock looks confused, which is also adorable and I have to keep from laughing out of sheer delight.

“But according to my observations”, he says, “social convention says you're supposed to say it back. Isn't that what people do?”

“You don't need to do what _people do_ , Sherlock. You never do, it'd creep me out if you started now.”

He frowns, studying my face. “But don't you want to hear it?”

“Sherlock, I already know.”

Sherlock shakes his head, making me drop my hand from his cheek. “Your reasoning doesn't make any logical sense. People say it far too often for it to be of simply informational purposes. Most of the time the recipient must already know about the state of the matter. I've always thought that makes communicating it superfluous and frankly tiresome, but I'm surprised you agree.”

“Do you know what, Sherlock?” I say, and he silently shakes his head. “Say it when you're so filled with it you need to let it out somewhere. Say it only when you can't hold it in.”

He watches me in silence before he nods slowly. He raises his hands and cups my face, not exactly shy any more but still unsure, or perhaps only inexperienced. The look in his eyes tells me what he's doing, because I recognise this feeling; the need to find skin warm and soft, the need to make sure this is not a ghost but an actual human being, still alive against all odds. My chest hurts when I see his pain and remember the grave, the coffin, the pavement.

His fingers trace my skin lightly, investigating my face. The sadness and worry eventually fades and makes room for that sharp interest of his. It's so Sherlockian, the way he touches me; he doesn't try to give me pleasure, he's genuinely curious about every detail of my appearance, and I can practically see him filing it all away carefully on some shelf in his mind palace. I've never been touched in such a way, and never been looked at with that kind of marvelling gaze. Makes me feel like I'm somehow the most precious thing walking the earth.

His touch feels so good I want to close my eyes, but I don't want to miss his eyes. Oh, the dilemmas of being with the most beautiful man ever alive.

He opens his mouth, looking very much like a man on the verge of saying those three words – but instead he whispers my name, drawing it out, forming his lips around it beautifully. _John._

I am so impossibly fucking happy.

Sherlock initiates the next kiss. His mouth is just as explorative as his eyes and hands, and I let him lead. His mouth presses, nips and gently sucks my lips, a careful tongue tip coming out to taste them. Only when he's surveyed my lips thoroughly, his tongue enters my mouth. I am getting hotter, more and more frustrated at not having his body pressed against mine as we sit uncomfortably at the edge of the bed, but I simply reach my hands up to rest on his shoulders. Even as the kisses grow deeper they continue in the same slow manner, probably so Sherlock can notice and save every detail of them.

He lets go of my mouth, his lips moving on to the skin of my face. The careful kisses are heartbreakingly sweet as he covers my face with them. Then his nose finds the hollow beneath my ear. He inhales and whispers against my skin.

“John.”

“Hmm”, I murmur, breathier than I had planned.

“I think I'll need to say it soon.”

I squeeze his shoulders and press my eyelids together. _Watson, don't cry_. Sherlock's hands are on my neck, his fingers tracing up and down. His kisses are tiny now, all of them on the same spot on my throat as his nose stays buried beneath my ear. When he speaks, his voice is more human and alive than I've ever heard it.

“I love you.”

_Watson, I said don't cry._

“Sherlock, I want to hold you.”

He practically falls forward onto me, and I lie back on the bed and rearrange us until we are pressed together, legs tangled in order to be as close as we possibly can. I reach up to gather a handful of black curls, breathing them in.

“I love you”, I whisper.

He draws his head back to look at me, eyes shining with something resembling hope. “You've already said.”

I smile. “I know. I just needed to say it again.”

“John”, he sighs, bumping his mouth onto mine.

I have reached the limit for innocent kisses, with this ridiculous length of gorgeous boyfriend in my arms. He whimpers in surprise at how I'm changing the mood of the kissing – and I'm immediately even farther gone, remembering just how he sounded when I touched him that one time, as if he had never felt something like it, as if he was astounded by everything I did.

I want to take him apart, I want him to be so fucking alive he'll stay alive forever. Still it feels like I'm breaking when I see him like this, the calculating consulting detective gone and replaced with a soft human being, helpless with pleasure and so very, very mortal in my arms. He clings to me like I'm the only thing keeping him sane and it's too much, for him and for me, I love him too much and I'm too scared of losing him. I don't know if I'll even be able to bear skin-to-skin contact, but my hands rip at our stupid clothing anyway, and when it's all gone and I come back into his arms, his moan almost sounds like agony. He kisses me fiercely.

“John, I want to feel it again. Please. Do it again.”

This wipes my conscious thought out for a moment before I manage to scramble off the bed and search the suitcase. Well what do you know, the nameless person who went through my stuff was wise enough to pack lube. It's kind of creepy but also entirely forgiven.

“John”, Sherlock whines beneath me as I push in, “John”, but then he changes it to: “I love you, I love you-”

“Yes-” I manage.

I try my best to stifle my groans, since the walls of a hostel this shabby are probably like paper. Sherlock seems entirely oblivious to this, though, and all I can do is stare at him when he gives himself up for me. He's moaning, shouting, pleading, and every nuance of his pleasure is visible on his face. Watching him this unguarded is entrancing and he has no idea, he is just completely devoted to this, to me, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever had the privilege to witness.

After, he lies completely still, his face smooth and free from every burden. I can't look away.

 _This is it, Watson._ I will never leave him.

***

The sky is already bright despite the early hour. Sherlock is sprawled heavily over me. Should make it hard to breathe, but instead it actually makes it easier. I run my hand lazily through his curls.

“So I guess you're finished in Sweden now?”

“Mm, yes. The two men in Old Town were the last piece.”

“Where are we going next?”

I feel him smile against my chest: _we._

“Serbia.”


End file.
